


Years and Tears

by JJJunky



Category: Young Riders
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1863 and the war has touched everyone's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Years and Tears

Years and Tears  
By JJJunky

 

Vicksburg, Mississippi  
July 1, 1863

A shell exploded into the ground, shaking the earth. The Kid took little notice. The scream of mortars flying overhead was an occurrence he had learned to live with - it was that or go mad. In this summer of '63, the Confederate forces in Vicksburg had lived under the persistent guns of the Union Army of the Northern States for over two months.

A Lieutenant in J.E.B Stuart's elite cavalry, the Kid had been sent to Vicksburg with a two man detachment to make contact with General Van Dorn. Before they could make their escape, Grant had closed the back door, initiating the siege of the southern city.

The earth trembled. Dirt fell into the brown liquid that passed for coffee. The Kid didn't care. The stench from the bodies rotting beneath the hot sun in the no man's land between them and the Yank line turned his stomach. With evening approaching, he desperately prayed that a truce would be called, allowing them to vacate the underground caves in which they dwelled in order to bury the corpses.

It was easy to see why the Union officers had taken to calling Vicksburg the Prairie Dog Village. Cannons pounded the city by day, while Porter's gunboats on the river shelled it at night. For residents and troops alike, the only refuge was caves that had been dug in the yellow clay of the hillsides.

A body hurled itself into the gloomy shelter. Snipers bullets spent themselves in the ground near the entrance where the soldier had been only moments before. Laughing as though he'd just heard a funny joke, the young private crawled to the Kid's side. "Those Yanks couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, Lieutenant."

His eyes resting on the holes the bullets had dug, the Kid observed, "Looks to me like their aim is gettin' better, Jeffries. You best be keepin' yer head down as long as the sun's up, or it may get shot off."

Jeffries giggled and pointed to the headstone that served as their table. "Just don't forget to change the name."

Of the two men who had accompanied him to Vicksburg, the Kid was most concerned about Jeffries. The Virginian seemed to find something funny about everything, even the human flesh rotting outside. On the other hand, Corporal Lee was trying to sleep his life away. He woke only long enough to consume the meager scrapes of food the Kid managed to acquire, or to repel an enemy attack. The latter was often more prevalent than the former.

"Guess what I seen in town, Lieutenant?"

The giggle that accompanied the request grated on the Kid's nerves. Clutching his hands into fists to keep them from circling the thin neck, he asked, "What did you see?"

"A spy, an honest ta God, Union spy," whispered Jeffries, putting his dirty face up close to his superior's. "Somebody recognized him. They said he was a famous gunslinger out west."

Fighting the urge to pull away from the odorous private, the Kid unenthusiastically probed, "Who is it?"

"The one and only Wild Bill Hickok," Jeffries proudly declared.

Almost three years of Civil War and campaigns at Manassas, Antietam, and Fredericksburg had taught the Kid to school his emotions. If you lost your head when a friend - or a brother - died, you might join him. The shock that wasn't reflected on his face gripped his empty stomach. Memories of the last bitter days he had spent with his friend surfaced. With them, came feelings he thought he had buried. His stomach cramped in sympathy, but there was nothing to purge.

"They say he killed Caulder and his whole gang single-handed," Jeffries declared, unaware of his companion's history. "Some say he's the fastest gun in the West. What do you think, Lieutenant?"

"I wouldn't know," the Kid truthfully replied. The question of who was faster had never been tested.

Disheartened by the lack of enthusiasm his news had wrought, Jeffries moved to pour himself a cup of coffee. Crossing to the other side of the fire, he pulled his legs up to his chest. His high-pitched giggle echoed hollowly around the cave.

The Kid turned his eyes to the dimming sunlight. Once darkness fell, it would be relatively safe to journey outside. Gunboats would press the mortar attacks, but the snipers would be ineffectual. You can't shoot what you can't see. Swallowing the last dredges of the tepid liquid, he impatiently waited for night to fall.

* *

Throwing his cards down in disgust, Teaspoon Hunter cried, "Miller, you are the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I've ever played. If I didn't know better, I'd say you was cheatin'."

"Maybe you don't know better." The large Texan smirked as he drew in his winnings.

"I know," Teaspoon wisely contradicted. "No one in his right mind would cheat the men protecting his back."

"Sergeant Hunter?"

Recognizing the Kid's voice, Teaspoon immediately rose to his feet. His head bent slightly to keep it from hitting the dirt roof, he replied, "Yes, sir?"

"Could I see you a moment, Sergeant?"

"Of course, sir." Teaspoon took a particular delight in calling his young protégé, sir - even though he knew how much the Kid hated it.

Leading the way through the darkness to what was left of an oak tree, the Kid waited until the older man had made himself comfortable against the stump before declaring, "Jimmy's been captured."

"Are you sure?" Teaspoon pressed, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his long white hair.

"Jeffries said Wild Bill Hickok was caught spying," revealed the Kid, kneeling next to the older man. "What are we gonna do, Teaspoon?"

Hunter sadly shook his head. "There's not much we can do, son. We're at war. Jimmy's our enemy now."

"He's not my enemy," the Kid angrily contradicted.

Laying a hand on the bony knee, Teaspoon softly reminded, "Jimmy came here to gather information that could destroy us."

"What's left to destroy?" demanded the Kid, returning to his feet and backing away. "Half our force is sick and the other half is starving to death. How much longer do you think we can hold out?"

"As long as we're ordered to." Teaspoon understood how the Kid felt, but he had to try to discourage him from doing something rash - and getting himself killed. Later, when the boy was safely in his cave, Teaspoon would map out a plan to rescue Hickok.

"I can't just sit around and let Jimmy hang," the Kid protested.

Rising to his feet, Teaspoon put a hand on the tense shoulder. "You got a family to think of Kid."

"Lou wouldn't want me to sit back and do nothing if it'd cost Jimmy his life."

"What about little Ike?" the older man admonished, his grip tightening on the thin shoulder. "The lad needs his father."

Pulling away from the restraining hand, the Kid whispered, "A man needs his self-respect more."

As the boy walked away, Teaspoon realized he'd failed. The Kid wouldn't return to the cave and the safety it offered. Disregarding common sense and advice, he would attempt to rescue his old friend. Though he didn't know it now, Teaspoon vowed, the Kid wouldn't be alone.

* *

Jimmy ducked his head as another shell whistled overhead. The sound of the explosion and the shaking of the earth had subsided before he resumed his pacing.

The small building in which he had been incarcerated lay in the shadow of a hotel at the edge of town. As he had been marched down the main street to his prison, he had seen the toll the months of the siege had inflicted on the people and buildings. In the butcher shop, the only meat available was rat. Most of the other stores were closed, dusty or cracked windows obscuring their contents. Homes were deserted, their former occupants dwelling now in underground caves. Fences that once encircled the mansions had disappeared in the aftermath of a mortar attack or in a fire on a cold night. 

Though uncertain about his own future, Jimmy felt compassion for his jailers. They had suffered greatly in the months of the siege.

Voices outside his door drew his attention. Realizing that he was about to receive a visitor, he lit the single candle he had been relegated. He wanted to see the face of his enemy.

The bolt slid back, releasing the door. Hinges squealed in protest as it was thrown open. The dim light of the candle left the edges of the room - and his visitor - in the obscurity of a shadow. The door closed. The loud clang of the bolt being thrown was muffled slightly by the thick wooden door. Silence filled the room when the vaguely familiar shape stepped into the light.

Shock momentarily held Hickok immobile. Then, before he could contemplate his action, he threw a hard right into the dirty jaw of his uninvited guest, knocking the emaciated body to the floor. "I never would've believed that you'd betray me like this Kid."

Gently massaging his aching jaw, the Kid protested, "You gotta know I wouldn't do that, Jimmy."

"Why should I?" Hickok demanded. "Because you couldn't face Lou?"

"Because I couldn't live with myself," the Kid replied simply as he climbed to his feet.

Moved by the sincerity, and knowing the truth in his heart, Hickok crossed to the wall where his face would be hidden in the shadows. Even to an old friend he wouldn't reveal his vulnerability. "So what are you doing here?"

"I came to help you escape."

Eyes sharpened by numerous gun battles, studied the ingenious face. They had been friends once, but that was almost two years ago. Years that had seen neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. The country and its people would never be the same again. Could a friendship - their friendship - survive such a test? "Why should I believe you'd go against your precious South?"

"What have you got to lose?" the Kid wisely pointed out. "You're headed for a noose or a firing squad anyway."

Trust had never come easy to Jimmy. He could count on one hand the number of people he was willing to entrust his life to. Surprisingly, he realized, one of them was standing in front of him now. Even their fundamental loyalties hadn't changed his basic feelings. The Kid was still one of the most honest, self- sacrificing men he had ever known. "What's your plan?"

"I'll wait 'til a cloud covers the moon," the Kid revealed, "then I'll knock out the guard. As soon as I open the door, go to your left. That way will take you to the river. You should be able to swim out to one of those gunboats. I know it's dangerous, but it's safer than trying to slip through our lines."

Hickok was about to agree to the plan when a thought struck him. "What about you?"

"What about me?" asked the Kid crossing to the door.

"Ain't you comin' with me?"

"I can't."

"You're helping a spy to escape," Jimmy noted, grabbing the Kid's arm and pulling him away from the door. "They'll hang you in my place."

"I'll take my chances," the Kid replied, defiantly raising his chin.

Truly puzzled, Jimmy asked, "Why?"

"I still believe in the South."

"How can you?" demanded Hickok, exhibiting the same anger he had shown when the Kid had told them he was leaving Rock Creek to join the Confederate Army. "You said you were Ulysses' friend."

"We've been over this before, Jimmy. Just because I support the South, it doesn't mean I believe in everything she stands for." His voice softening, the Kid reminded, "I didn't like it when Lou would put herself in danger trying to be one of the boys, but I never stopped loving her because she did."

Jimmy smiled reminiscently. "It sure did cause some fights, though."

"Yeah," agreed the Kid, the frown on his face a familiar sight to the young gunslinger.

Before Jimmy could utter another word of protest, the Kid knocked on the door, summoning the guard. As he slipped outside, the bolt clanged into place, imprisoning Jimmy once again. Even with his ear against the rough wood, the voices were barely audible. As Jimmy waited for his opportunity, he fought his conscience. Should he let the Kid risk his life, or, should he just refuse to leave? If he did escape to his own lines, could he reveal what he had learned of the rebel defenses? Wouldn't that be condemning his friend to certain death? Yet, if he didn't, was he a traitor to his own troops? Never in his life had he wished more for a sweat bath - and Teaspoon Hunter's advice.

* *

In the darker shadow of the hotel, Teaspoon watched the Kid strike up a conversation with the guard posted in front of Hickok's prison. Satisfied that he hadn't been seen, the older man slowly crept forward. The familiar sound of a mortar whistling overhead resounding in his ears. Months of experience told him the shell would strike close by. Throwing himself to the ground, he covered his head with his arms.

The earth was still shaking when he lifted his eyes to the heavens. The soft glow of the moon shone dimly from behind a cloud. Rubbing his temples to relieve the ache caused by the loud crash, Teaspoon crawled to where he had seen the Kid and the guard conversing.

Groping hands touched a thin cotton shirt. Recognizing the shape of an arm, Teaspoon followed it up to the shoulder. When he reached the spot where a head should be, he found nothing but the sticky wetness of blood. Bile rose in his throat. Praying that the headless corpse beneath his hand wasn't the Kid, he stepped over it to continue his search. This time, the slow rise and fall of a chest met his questing fingers. His whole body shaking with hope and fear, Teaspoon gently checked the clammy flesh for a wound. On the left side, just below the collar bone, he found a gaping hole. The edge of the moon crept from beneath the cloud to shine down on the Kid's face.

A sigh of relief was quickly followed by the realization the they were losing the darkness - the only concealment Hickok would have in his bid for freedom. Pressing a torn piece of his shirt into the bleeding wound, Teaspoon rose to his feet. Crossing to the shack, he threw back the bolt. "Jimmy."

"Teaspoon?" Hickok emerged from the darker shadows of the building. "What's goin' on?"

"You're escaping," Teaspoon explained.

The dust-laden air filled Jimmy's lungs, making him cough. "What happened to the Kid?"

"He got hurt in that last mortar attack," said Teaspoon, pointing to the two bodies.

"Is he hurt bad?" Dropping to his knees, Hickok laid a tentative hand on his friend's good shoulder.

"I don't think so, but I won't know for sure 'til I get him to a doctor," Teaspoon impatiently replied. Pulling the younger man to his feet, he added, "And I can't do that 'til you're gone."

Obviously torn between his desire to help his friend and his sense of survival, Jimmy pressed, "Are you sure he'll be all right?"

"There are no certainties in a war, son," Hunter softly reminded the boy. "All you can do is try to survive and hope your friends do, too."

"Thanks for everything, Teaspoon," Jimmy softly whispered before slipping off into the shadows.

Tired eyes followed the sturdy figure until he could no longer be seen. "Ride safe, son."

 

Sweetwater Station  
September 24, 1863 

Lou leaned against the stall. A cold wind, a taste of the coming winter, blew across her shoulders, making her shiver. Buttoning her coat, she watched in delight as Katy's new foal, still wet from the fluids in the birth canal, climbed to her feet on shaking legs. Awkwardly, she took her first step.

Almost three years ago, with Buck's assistance, Lou agreed to take over the management of Emma Shannon's ranch. She had done so to provide a home for her brother, Jeremiah, her sister, Teresa, and the new baby that was growing in her belly. She wasn't sorry she had taken on the responsibility. Her only regret was that the Kid had never seen his son.

"We're back, Lou."

Quickly wiping a tear from her eye, Lou turned to greet her Indian friend. "We have a beautiful new foal."

"She looks just like her mother," said Buck, leaning against the gate to get a better view of the newborn.

In the last few years, a deep bond had grown between the independent young woman and the disassociated half-breed. It was a friendship forged as much by what they had lost as by what they had found. Without knowing how she knew, Lou could feel that a new hurt had been inflicted on her companion's soul. "What's wrong, Buck? They didn't give you any trouble in town, did they?" 

"We got a letter from Amanda," Buck explained, his eyes focused on the small foal.

"Oh, good," smiled Lou, pushing away from the stall. "Has she had any news from Teaspoon?"

Tears ran down his face as Buck turned to confront the young woman. "Teaspoon's dead."

"No!" Lou backed away, her hands held in front of her as though to ward off an evil spirit. Her words barely audible, she whispered, "How?"

"He was at Vicksburg. Apparently, he was shot for aiding a prisoner's escape."

Shaking her head, Lou tried to smile. "Teaspoon wouldn't do that. He can't be the one they killed. There's been a mistake."

"Amanda wouldn't have written the letter if she thought there was any doubt," Buck unhappily pointed out while trying to take his distraught friend in his arms.

"Teaspoon can't be dead," snapped Lou, backing away. "Everybody's going to come home when this war's finally over - Jimmy, Cody, Teaspoon, and the Kid."

Fear making his voice quiver, Buck soothed, "It's all right, Lou. Just because Teaspoon's dead, it doesn't mean the Kid is."

"He promised you know."

"Who?"

"The Kid."

"What did he promise?" Buck gently probed.

"He promised he wouldn't ride on without me ever again." Tears rolled down the pale cheeks. "The Kid doesn't break his promises."

 

Fort Scott  
December 30, 1863

With a grace and ease he had learned from Buck, Cody silently advanced on the small buffalo herd. The sound of hooves scratching through the deep snow, to uncover the sparse grass underneath, echoed in the cold moisture-laden air.

Though he was disappointed by the size of the herd, Cody couldn't abandon his prey, even though he knew his actions would decimate the small band. It had taken him all day to find them. The starving soldiers back at the fort were relying on his skill - not his compassion.

Every movement slow and deliberate, he raised the faithful Hawkins to his shoulder. Hoping the sound wouldn't carry in the crisp, heavy air, he loaded a bullet and pulled down the bolt. Taking careful aim on a big bull, he squeezed the trigger. With a speed that deviated from his earlier caution, he reloaded and pointed the barrel at a cow. By the time the survivors had stampeded out of range, half of the small herd lay at his feet.

As he pushed through the snow to the carcasses, Cody felt no elation. Without a doubt, he would be praised, practically deified, when he got back to the fort. But this knowledge didn't ease the pain in his soul. He knew Buck would be hurt if the Indian ever found out how he had exploited the skills he had been taught. Cody couldn't blame him. He almost hated himself.

Returning to where he had left his horse and the mules, Cody pulled them as close to the clearing as he could, watching to make sure he kept them upwind of the dead animals. One whiff of the death that pervaded the area could cause the mules to panic.

With an anxious eye on the overcast sky, he started to slice the meat from the carcasses. He was only half done when snow started to gently fall. Realizing he could be stranded without shelter in a snowstorm, he regretfully abandoned his task. Wrapping the meat he had cut, he tied the bundles onto the mules backs.

The long, slow ride back to the fort was filled with memories of friendships that had been forged by happiness and sorrow. Two had already died, giving their lives so others could live. Two had joined the Confederate Army, becoming his enemy - in name, though not in spirit.

Snow coated his shoulders and obscured his vision by the time the flimsy barrier of the stockade came into view. Once again, Cody realized, he owed his life to his Kiowa Indian friend who had taught him how to read the signs of nature. Without Buck's training, Cody would be far from shelter, lost in a blizzard.

"He's back!"

The call of the trooper on watch heralded his return. Just inside the gate, Cody pulled to a stop. Their shoulders hunched against the cold and snow, soldiers quickly unpacked the already frozen meat and carried it to the kitchen hut.

Gratefully relinquishing his horse and the mules to a stable boy, Cody crossed to the drafty shed that served as his quarters. The odor of blood and death were heavy in his nostrils. All he wanted to do was wash the smell away.

As he opened the door to his cabin, the warmth of a fire greeted him. Sighing with contentment, he quickly crossed to the blaze, holding out his frozen hands. Almost immediately, needles seemed to stab the tender flesh, bringing both relief and pain.

"I was beginning to think Mr. William F. Cody's luck had finally run out."

When he had entered the room, Cody had felt the presence of another. He wasn't worried. The only person with the invitation - and courage - to enter his quarters was Sergeant Russell Pierce - the one soldier in the fort Cody chose to call his friend. "Thanks for making the fire, Russ."

"'Least I could do seein' as how you're gonna fill my belly," the older man amiably replied.

"Satisfy - maybe," qualified Cody, "not fill. The snow started before I got even half the meat."

"The way my belly aches, it'll be happy with only a taste," Pierce admitted.

Shedding his coat and buckskins, Cody poured warm water into a chipped porcelain bowl. Shivering in the cold drafts that blew through the cracks in the flimsy walls, he tried to scrub off the blood that had seeped through his gloves and stained his hands.

"Believe it or not," Russell noted, grunting as he stretched out on his friend's hard bunk, "we got mail while you were gone. You even got a letter."

Interested, Cody let the water drip from his face to his chest as he turned to inquire, "Where's it from?"

"A place called Sweetwater," said Russell, inspecting the envelope.

Turning back to his ablutions, Cody eagerly urged, "Read it."

The sound of ripping paper echoed around the room. His face flushed with eager anticipation, Cody grabbed a towel and dried his face and chest. Though he knew the smell of blood and buffalo still lingered on his skin, he paused in his efforts to alleviate them. It had been over six months since he had heard from any of his friends, he wanted to savor this moment. A clean body could wait.

"Dear Cody," Russell read, "I'm writing this letter not even certain that it'll find you. We received word from Amanda O'Connell that Teaspoon has been killed at Vicksburg. Apparently, he was put in front of a firing squad and shot for helping a spy escape."

The porcelain bowl crashed to the floor. Bits of pottery mixed with the bloody water littering the ground beneath Cody's bare feet.

Pierce's gaze rested on his friend's tormented face before returning to the letter. "Lou refuses to accept the fact that Teaspoon is dead. Partly, I think, because we haven't heard from the Kid in almost a year. I'm sorry this letter is filled with nothing but bad news. You can blame it on the times we live in. Your friend, Buck."

Turning to hide the tears streaming down his face, Cody leaned against a small table. He hadn't believed - wouldn't believe - that this war could affect him or his friends. He had been in battles and he had seen men die, but they had been men without faces. Now, one had a face, and a name - and it hurt. Oh, God, how it hurt.

 

Rock Creek, Nebraska Territory  
March 10, 1864

Buck could feel eyes boring into him as he rode slowly down the main street of the small Nebraska town he had once called home. Faces reflected the feelings that shone from those eyes. For some, it was hatred, for others fear. Only a few showed recognition and welcome.

The last three years had not only seen a civil war breakout in the East, it had seen an increase in tension between the white man and his red neighbors. Westward expansion was claiming land held sacred by various tribes. Dwindling food supplies confused and angered a people who had learned to live in unison with nature. Buck knew it was only a matter of time before his own loyalties would come into question.

"Hey, Cross, what're you doin' back in Rock Creek?"

Buck reined in his horse in front of Tompkins General Store. Though he and the store owner had never become friends, certain events had made them exchange a grudging respect.

Reluctant to divulge the real reason he had returned to Rock Creek, Buck's answer was purposely vague. "I'm here to see Rachel." Weather had prevented him from traveling South sooner. After waiting so long, he didn't want Rachel to hear the bad news from an insensitive acquaintance.

"She's still teaching school," supplied Tompkins. "I think you'll find her there."

"Thanks," Buck acknowledged. Kicking his horse into a slow jog, he pulled up at a hitching post across from the school house. Dismounting, he threw the reins around the rail before loosening the cinch. Pulling a piece of jerky from his saddlebags, he leaned against the railing and waited. He still wasn't sure how to tell Rachel about Teaspoon. He only knew she deserved to have it broken gently. They all owed the older man their lives and their happiness - Rachel more than any of them. Teaspoon had believed and supported her when she had been accused of murder. With the riders help, her name was cleared, and she'd found a new home.

In the darkest days, with the demise of the Pony Express imminent, and the war between the states raging, Teaspoon had introduced Rachel to the man she eventually married. Now, as the wife of the local banker and recently elected mayor of Rock Creek, she was finally receiving the respect she had always deserved.

Shouts of joy and laughter reverberated down the street as children tumbled from the school. Memories of his own days in the mission school inevitably assaulted Buck's thoughts. It was a time filled with pain, both physical and mental. But it was also a time when a bald-headed, mute boy had shunned his peers and befriended a lonely half-breed. Though Ike had died, the friendship still endured in the heart and mind of his friend.

"Buck!"

Rachel's surprised greeting ended Buck's bittersweet retrospection. Pushing away from the railing, he opened his arms to the woman flying heedlessly across the busy street.

"It's so good to see you, Buck." Rachel's arms circled the strong shoulders, pulling the boy close.

Returning the hug, Buck acknowledged, "We miss you, Rachel."

"What you miss is my stew," Rachel jokingly admonished, pulling away. Beautiful eyes studied the expressive face with a hunger that quickly turned to fear. "Who is it?"

Though he hadn't said a word, Buck realized Rachel knew why he had come to Rock Creek. Wishing he had more comforting surroundings to reveal his bad news, he gently revealed, "Teaspoon."

"How?" Only the strong arms still encircling her waist kept her from collapsing to the ground.

"He was accused of treason and put in front of a firing squad. They said he helped a spy escape."

Her cheeks wet with tears, Rachel nodded. "That sounds like Teaspoon. He never did consider the consequences if he thought an innocent person was about to be punished."

"That's what I said," Buck agreed. "But Lou won't believe he's dead. I'm worried about her."

"Denial can be an incredibly soothing tonic," explained Rachel. "I used it when my first husband and my baby were taken from me."

"As long as that's all it is," an unconvinced Buck warned.

Untying the reins of Buck's horse, Rachel handed them to the young Indian. "Come home with me. I'm sure you're hungry and tired after your long ride. I want to hear how everyone else is doing. How's little Ike?"

Buck smiled, though it was tinged with remorse. "Looking less and less like his namesake and more like his father."

 

Texarkana, Texas  
April 18, 1864

Jimmy tried not to make a face as he sipped his whiskey. He still hadn't developed a taste for liquor. Though the days of the Pony Express and its restrictions were far behind him, he still preferred a glass of sarsaparilla. Unfortunately, the drink wouldn't enhance his image as a cattle buyer for the Confederate Army.

Orders had sent him to Texas along with another spy by the name of John Allen. Major General Nathaniel Banks was planning to march up the Red River Valley to teach the people of Louisiana and Texas the meaning of war. At the same time, Major General Fredrick Steele would march into Arkansas. It was Hickok's and Allen's job to discover the Confederate troop movements, disposition and morale. This information was vital if the plan was to succeed.

Though he was supposed to be listening to the partially drunk soldiers leaning against the bar, Jimmy found his thoughts wandering, as they often did these days, to a small town on the Mississippi. Only three days after he had made his escape, Vicksburg capitulated. Upon re-entering the besieged city, he had tried to find out what had happened to Teaspoon and the Kid. His quest met with failure. Then, before he could find the answers he needed, his talents had been requested elsewhere. Though not formally an enlistee of the Union Army, Hickok's actions were subject to the whims of her Generals. Duty fought desire - and eventually won.

Jimmy's eyes finally focused on Allen standing by the swinging doors to the saloon. He had no idea how long he had been staring unseeing at the other man. Swallowing the last of his whiskey in one gulp, he joined his partner.

"What did ya find out?" whispered Allen, leading the way toward the stable where they had left their horses.

Ashamed, Jimmy admitted, "Nothing."

"I think we better get back to Steele and make our report anyway."

"What about the cattle we bought?" Though eager to return to his own lines, Hickok had to ask the question, "Won't it look suspicious if we leave without 'em?"

His eyes continually searching the shadows, Allen shook his head. "I told Landers we'd be back for 'em after we reported our success to our superiors and found out where they wanted the cattle distributed. By the time they discover I was lying, the battle will be over."

"Good thinking," Jimmy acknowledged, appreciating his partner's verbal skills. In that respect, Allen reminded Hickok of the Kid. Despite the similarities, though, he sorely felt the absence of his old friend from the Pony Express. If only he could find out what had happened to the Kid, it might ease the pain in his heart.

"We'd better ride," Allen suggested.

 

Elmira, New York  
August 23, 1864

Standing near the gate, the Kid was the first to notice the arrival of a new batch of prisoners. Though it was designed to hold five thousand rebels, the prison camp was already bulging at the seams with over nine thousand - with more arriving almost daily. An estimated count of the new group of internees showed there would be an additional three hundred souls in crowded barracks and tents.

Two weeks after Vicksburg surrendered, the Kid awakened in the hospital of his first prison camp. His inquires at first had been discreet, then desperate, as he tried to find out what had happened to Teaspoon and Jimmy. But the Union doctors and orderlies had been of little help. As his wounds healed and he was returned to the general compound, the Kid's concern for his friends diminished as he fought to survive.

The transfer to Elmira had been greeted with joy and anticipation. No one could have predicted that the new camp would be far worse than the ones they had left behind. It was only a matter of weeks before the name Elmira was bastardized into Hellmira.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant, ain't you the one Teaspoon Hunter use to call the Kid?"

The Kid turned to confront one of the new arrivals - a tall man whose skin hung loosely on his large frame. His accent indicated he was from Texas. A vague recognition of the face and voice stirred in the Kid. "Miller, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." The Texan proudly nodded, straightening slumped shoulders.

Anticipation firing his blood, the Kid eagerly inquired, "Is Teaspoon with you?"

"Didn't you hear, Lieutenant?" Miller fastened a puzzled gaze on the younger man. "The day before we surrendered Vicksburg, Sgt. Hunter was executed for helping a prisoner escape."

"No!" The world spun around him in dizzying circles of color. An arm circled the Kid's shoulders, giving him the support he needed, but did not want.

"Teaspoon was right worried about you, sir," Miller continued. "Said you was one of the best men he'd ever known. He'd be right glad to know you're all right."

Though tears streaked his cheeks, the Kid pulled himself together enough to suggest, "You better go find yourself a place to sleep, Miller, or you'll be outside."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Though most of the Confederate soldiers lacked the polish and disciple of their Union counterparts, Miller was obviously an exception.

When he was finally alone, the Kid leaned against the fence, crying out his hurt - and his rage. "Teaspoon, why didn't you tell them I was the one who released Jimmy. I'm not worth dying for."

 

El Dorado Springs, Missouri  
September 8, 1864

Cody crept quietly through the brush back to his horse. Though anxious to return to his patrol, he walked the animal for almost a mile before he dared to mount her. His feet were barely in the stirrups when he dug his heels into the hard flesh. Using a technique he had learned in the Pony Express, he bent low, close to the neck so he could get the optimum speed out of the little mare.

His heart burned with an anger that had lain dormant these last few years. When Cody had accomplished his mission of locating Quantrill and his band, he had discovered something else. Something he wished he hadn't. As he watched faces shining with a fanatical gleam cheer their leader, he recognized one of the faces. Its presence in this group of renegades and outlaws was a shock. So much so, he had almost revealed his position. Though slightly more mature, it was unmistakably Jesse James.

Despite their earlier friendship, Cody had never truly forgiven the man for Noah's death. Rachel still insisted on calling Jesse a boy. While Cody recognized that might be true in years - it wasn't by deed. Tales of Jesse's ruthless disregard for life were numerous. Though he had no compassion for the young boy he had once called friend, Cody hoped that none of the stories had reached Teaspoon before his death. It would have broken the older man's heart.

Sweat had foamed on the mare's neck by the time Cody rejoined his patrol. Pulling up next to the only officer, he reported, "I found Quantrill, sir. I managed to overhear their plans. They're preparing to raid El Dorado Springs."

"I guess we'll have to stop them," the captain decided.

"Sir," Cody cautiously proceeded. If there was one thing he had learned in the last few years, it was never to challenge an officer's authority. It tended to make them surly. "Quantrill doesn't have his entire band, but they still outnumber us four to one."

"Are you saying ten well trained army officers can be defeated by forty ruffians, Mr. Cody?" Captain Reed demanded, pulling his pistol.

Picking his words carefully, Cody shook his head. "No, sir, all I'm sayin' is maybe we should warn the townspeople. It's their home; they have a right to help defend it."

"Maybe you're right," Reed reluctantly agreed, re-holstering his gun. "I suggest we proceed with utmost speed."

Cody rode beside the young captain. A similar scene replayed in his head. That time, Jimmy and the Kid had warned Sweetwater of the Hawk's impending attack. The madman had been defeated without the Army's intervention, but the victory had exacted a horrible price. Cody knew he would never forget the sight of Tommy Sims covering the body of his mother with a thin blanket. Now there was another madman headed for another innocent town. How many mothers and fathers would lie dead on its streets tonight?

Almost as soon as they entered the town, they were surrounded by its people. Whether they sensed the danger that threatened them, or they had already been warned, Cody was uncertain. Throwing the reins of his horse to a trooper, he followed the captain into the nearest building. Among the forms and patterns of the town's dressmaker, he prepared for battle.

They didn't have long to wait. Dust swirled around the milling horses. Raising his pistol, Cody took aim on the man leading the charge. The bullet tore into the vulnerable chest, flipping the man off the back of his horse and under the feet of another following closely behind.

Already turning his attention to another target, Cody pulled the trigger once more. Dust was starting to make it difficult to see. He was just about to squeeze the trigger again, when he realize his prey was Jesse. His hand shook as sweat beaded his brow. He cursed softly as his mind and heart fought a battle over dominance of his finger - his heart won.

Dropping his head on his arm, Cody cried, "I'm sorry, Noah. I'm so sorry."

 

Sweetwater Station  
October 2, 1864

Lou bounced painfully on the hard seat as a wagon wheel dropped into a deep rut. The road to Sweetwater was getting worse and worse with each passing month. It was one more chore they would need to find the time to perform. When she had agreed to take over the running of Emma's ranch, Lou had not realized what she was taking on. If it weren't for Buck, she would have thrown in the towel long ago. It was his skills and knowledge that had allowed them to show a modest profit last year. Lou was glad her brother, Jeremiah, was learning from such a kind and capable teacher.

As she entered the town, she noticed that more new structures had sprung up since her last visit. Despite the war in the East and the increasing tensions with the Indians, Sweetwater continued to grow at a rapid pace. By the time the Kid returned, he probably wouldn't recognize it.

Silently, Lou chastised herself. She knew Buck was worried about her. He felt the plans she was making for when the Kid returned were setting her up for a harder fall if he didn't. It had been almost two years since she had last heard from her husband. Yet, despite the newspaper stories detailing the horrors of the various battles, she still believed the Kid was alive. It was the only way she could get through each day.

As she remembered the time when she had pretended to be a boy, Lou almost laughed out loud. Back then, all she had wanted was to be accepted and treated as an equal by the other riders. She had accomplished her goal with everyone - except the Kid. With him, she'd constantly had to fight to keep her independence. When they were married and she had relinquished it, she wondered what she had been fighting for. The day the Kid rode off to war, she had entered a prison with far more restrictions than his love had ever extorted. Only one person held the key to her freedom.

Pulling the wagon up in front of the general store, Lou reined in. As she entered the familiar surroundings, her eyes were automatically drawn to the small cubby holes that served as the town's post office. Her heart beat faster when she saw there was a letter in the slot provided for the Sweetwater Station. With a speed reminiscent of the days when she had been a Pony Express rider, she crossed to the box. Her hands shook as she pulled the envelope from the slot.

At first, she had trouble focusing on the return address. When she finally realized it was from Emma and Sam, she felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Leaning her head against the cool wood of the box, she took deep even breaths trying to regain at least a semblance of control before facing Mr. Bradley, the shopkeeper.

"I see he hasn't scalped you, yet."

It took a few moments before the words made sense to the distraught young woman. Forcing a smile, she turned to greet her neighbor. "Good morning, Mrs. Brown. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"How much longer are you going to live out there alone with that savage?" demanded the irate woman.

Controlling her temper with difficulty, Lou pointed out, "I'm hardly alone. There's my brother, my sister and my son to look after."

"I'm surprised he hasn't killed you all in your sleep," Mrs. Brown asserted, straightening her hat which was threatening to fly off the furiously shaking head.

"Buck is our friend." Lou gritted her teeth so hard, her jaw hurt. "He would never hurt us."

"If you get home and find those children dead, don't say I didn't warn you."

As she watched the large, unpleasant woman walk indignantly away, Lou sighed in exasperation. Many of these people had known Buck for years - and they still didn't trust him. No wonder the two skins, red and white, couldn't live side by side. Intolerance and bigotry pointed to an unhappy future.

 

Westport, Missouri  
October 22, 1864

Bullets spent themselves in the ground before they reached Hickok's retreating back. Attached to General Curtis' headquarters, it was his job to chart the Confederate advance for the Union command. From what he could predict, it looked as though Price was heading for Kansas City. The ten mile long train of wagons, filled with everything the rebels could steal from the impoverished countryside, wasn't difficult to follow.

With Grant fighting his way through the Wilderness toward Richmond, and Sherman marching through Georgia to the sea, Price's advance was a last desperate attempt to make the Yankees pay. Caught between Curtis' two regiments of Kansas volunteers and General Pleasonton's three cavalry brigades, Price's bold plan was doomed.

Whipping his exhausted horse, Hickok rode to Curtis' headquarters to make his report. It had been days since he had slept. As had happened many times before, he would relay what he had learned, then find a fresh horse that was already prepared for him. Back in the saddle, he would then ride back to the position where he had left the Confederate band. There had been numerous times when he had returned before the entire train had disappeared down the road.

Giving the stallion its head, Hickok's thoughts turned to his old partner. A few months before, John Allen had been killed when the two men accidentally got caught on the wrong side of a battle. When they attempted to change sides, a Confederate officer tried to stop them. In Allen's case, he had succeeded. Hickok still missed his friend. He had come closer to trusting Allen than he had anyone since he had left Sweetwater.

"Halt, who goes there?"

Hickok pulled his horse up in front of the picket. "It's me, Hickok." A light flashed in his eyes blinding him. 

"You're free to pass, Wild Bill," the young soldier assented.

Proceeding at a slower pace, Hickok rode to the tent that served as General Curtis' headquarters. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to a young private. Even as he entered the tent, he wondered if Teaspoon or the Kid were among the troops he was helping to lead to destruction.

 

Sweetwater Station  
December 12, 1864

"You check over there, Jeremiah," Buck instructed. "I'll check over here. We'll meet back at the ranch."

A thin layer of snow crunched beneath his horse's hooves as Buck reined the animal off to his left to search for the cattle scattered across the range. With the winter coming, it was important to move them closer to the ranch. There were no fences to enclose them, but there didn't need to be. The promise of food would keep the animals from straying.

He had already rounded up twenty head when Buck heard his Indian name whispering on the wind. Drawn to a small grove of trees, he abandoned the herd.

"Running Buck, I'm glad you heard my cry."

Buck suspiciously regarded the brother of his Indian blood. "You said the next time we met you would kill me."

"A threat spoken in anger and disappointment," Red Bear confessed, holding out his hands in supplication.

To keep from turning his back on his brother - and his enemy, Buck threw his right leg over the front of the saddle as he dismounted. "Why have you come?"

"We need you my brother."

"I thought my blood wasn't pure enough to be a Kiowa warrior."

"We are few and getting fewer," Red Bear proclaimed, ignoring the younger man's statement. "As we grow weaker, the white man grows stronger."

Once again, Buck felt the two halves of his soul tearing at each other. His heart and his mind fought its own civil war. "Have you tried talking to the white man?"

"You know what good that has done," growled Red Bear, picking up a stick and breaking it in half.

Tears filling his eyes, Buck nodded. "We heard about what happened at Sand Creek."

"Black Kettle had been told as long as he flew the American flag, his people would be safe."

"What do you care?" Buck bitterly demanded. "The Cheyenne are enemies to the Kiowa."

Red Bear threw the pieces of the broken stick to the ground. "The warriors were off hunting. All that was left in the Sand Creek camp were women, children, and old men - and still they came. I would not wish this even on our enemies. Your civilized white man scalped and mutilated the bodies of the dead. They cut unborn babies out of their mother's wombs."

Screaming a silent cry of protest, Buck turned away. Staring up into the heavens, he searched for an answer. His heart, like his blood, was split in two. "I can't go with you now," he finally decided.

"Why?" There was more anger than hurt in the word.

"Lou and the children need me."

"We need you, too."

Turning to face his brother, Buck noted, "But they were there when I needed someone. Where were you?"

"When will you come?" Red Bear unhappily conceded his defeat.

"The war is going badly for the South," Buck thoughtfully observed. "It shouldn't be long before it's over. When the Kid, Jimmy, or Cody come back, that's when I'll return to my brother's people."

"They are your people, too, Running Buck," Red Bear softly reprimanded.

"No." Buck shook his head. "The only people who care for me are back at that ranch. They're the only ones who see no color when they look at me."

 

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas  
February 15, 1865

Hickok entered General Curtis' office. With the victory at Westport, formal warfare on the border had come to an end - making things a bit boring for the former spy/scout. "You sent for me, sir?"

"Come in, Hickok." Curtis waved his hand as a further enticement. "I just concluded a conversation with a Sioux chief named Conquering Bear. He reported that there are five hundred Choctaws camped on the Kam River, ten miles west of Lawrence."

"The Choctaws allied themselves with the Confederacy," Hickok observed.

Curtis nodded agreement. "Along with the Cherokees, Creeks and Osages. They've been boasting that an all out massacre of white settlers will take place."

"Do you believe this Conquering Bear, General?"

"I find it difficult to trust any Indian's profession of friendship with the white man."

Though Hickok knew of one Indian who could be trusted, he didn't debate the issue. He was among the lucky few who could call an Indian his friend. It was something to take pride in - not flaunt. "Do you want me to go along with this Conquering Bear and investigate the report, sir?"

"I'll put Major Reed and two of his divisions at your disposal," Curtis agreed.

Hickok shook his head. "I'd rather go alone with Conquering Bear. If it's a trap, a lot of men could get killed."

"Have it your way, Hickok," Curtis reluctantly gave his consent.

* *

It was dark when the two men, one white, one red, ventured out onto the prairie near Conquering Bear's village. Their objective was to scout the Choctaw camp, though Hickok still had his doubts concerning the veracity of the Chief's claim.

As though to confirm his companion's fears, Conquering Bear suddenly gave a loud whoop and disappeared into the brush. Rising before Jimmy, like the ghosts from his childhood imagination, Choctaws encircled Hickok, their knives and axes shining in the moonlight. As sharp as the blades of their weapons were, they were no match for their opponent's colts. Each bullet found a target. By the time the firing pins clicked on empty chambers, eight Indians lay dead at Hickok's feet. Blood streaming from their wounds, four others were led or carried away by their companions.

Picking up a Bowie knife that had been dropped by one of the slain warriors, Hickok called, "You might as well come out now, Conquering Bear. I'm not leaving 'til I find you."

A rustling noise off to his left drew Hickok's attention. A matching knife in his hand, Conquering Bear pointed it at the white man. "Now that you are armed only with a weapon of honor, you will be given the privilege of facing one who is superior to you."

Hickok didn't waste his breath debating his opponent's opinion. Blades clanged loudly in the night air as the two men met in mortal combat.

Sweat poured from both bodies by the time the sun began its long climb. Exhaustion making his arms heavy, Jimmy made a desperate stab at his adversary's body. Luck rather than skill inflicted a long gash on the Indian's chest. Surprise at the unexpected success held Hickok in momentary immobility. His instinct for survival made him throw up his arm against Conquering Bear's retaliatory strike. The sharp blade cut Jimmy's arm from the wrist to the elbow.

Blood flowed heavily from both wounds, weakening the two men. His vision blurring, Hickok made one last reckless jab at the Indian's heart. At the same time, his balance precarious, Conquering Bear fell forward, his knife heading for his opponent's abdomen. Instead of finding its original target, Hickok's blade slashed across the vulnerable throat of his adversary, cutting the jugular vein.

Almost immediately, Conquering Bear's eyes glazed over. Blood gushing from his throat, he toppled into the dusty weeds.

Breathing heavily, Hickok loosened the death grip he had on his knife and let it drop to the ground at his feet. Tearing a sleeve from his shirt, he wrapped it around the profusely bleeding wound in his arm. The new sun blinded him as he took his first unsteady steps back toward where he had left his horse. His mind worked feverishly on how he could embellish the story when he recited the experience to Teaspoon and the Kid. Even without embroidery, he had a feeling none of his friends would believe him.

 

Elmira, New York  
March 16, 1865

The rope had been tied too tight, chaffing his wrists and cutting off the circulation, but the Kid knew he dare not protest the harsh treatment. It would only get worse. His nerves were on edge as he waited to be summoned to Captain Lewis' office. As the officer on duty, it was his job to mete out the punishment for the Kid's offense. What made the wait so difficult was the fact that there was no specific punishment for an infraction of the rules. A prisoner's well-being was left in the hands of a guard or the duty officer.

The last time the Kid had been punished, he had been bucked and gagged, then hung by his thumbs. Since the thumbs were tied behind his back, it put a heavy strain on his shoulders. Eventually, he had fainted, where upon they had cut him down.

That punishment had been dealt out for talking back to a guard. This time, he had audaciously touched an officer - a far worse offense, which was bound to result in a comparable sentence.

"The captain will see you now."

Before the Kid could obey the summons under his own power, he was dragged into the small office. Despite the rags that barely covered his body, he held his head high as he stood at attention before the young captain.

"Private Burke here tells me you grabbed Chief Surgeon Sanger's arm, Lieutenant," Lewis stated, meeting the Kid's eyes. "May I ask why?"

"My friend was dying. He refused to help," the Kid explained. "I hoped I could change his mind."

"That doesn't give you the right to accost an officer in the Army of the Northern States."

"Does it make sense to put a doctor in charge of Confederate prisoners who boasts that he's killed more rebels than any soldier at the front?" the Kid angrily demanded.

Lewis' eyes dropped to his hands. "Leave us, Private Burke."

"Do you think that's wise, sir?" protested the older man.

"I'll call you if I need you," Lewis instructed. The door had barely closed behind the private when Lewis rose to his feet. "Due to the overcrowding, I know conditions are desperate--"

"Desperate!" The Kid snorted. "We're past desperate, Captain. Men are dying of scurvy, diarrhea, pneumonia and small pox - not to mention starvation. The prisoners that were hurt when their train crashed bringing them here are lying in their bunks with clothing stuck to their cuts and broken bones un-mended. We may be your enemy, but we're still human beings and should be treated as such."

"Believe me when I tell you that I and almost every other guard here would change things if we could," the captain pleaded.

Though the other man had obviously been effected by his words, the Kid felt no sympathy for him. Too many men had died in his arms from pure neglect for him to feel any compassion for his jailers. "If that's the way you feel, why don't you do something?"

"We can't," admitted Lewis. "All our orders come from Colonel Hoffman, the Commissary-General in charge of prisoners."

"Can't he see what he's doing to once strong, healthy bodies?"

"Maybe that's part of the problem. He can't. He's in Washington."

"Have you tried telling him?"

"It hasn't done any good." Lewis averted his eyes. "Most of his orders are issued in conjunction with the South's mistreatment of Union soldiers."

The Kid shook his head in disbelief. "An eye for an eye. That philosophy makes a hurt worse so it never heals."

"Yes, well." Lewis abruptly returned to his desk. His eyes on the report in front of him, he continued, "I've considered the gravity of your offense. The only sentence that would fit a crime of this magnitude is the sweatbox. Incarceration is to commence immediately."

The Kid wasn't surprised by the judgment - only the captain's obvious reluctance to enforce it. The box was approximately seven feet high, twenty inches wide and twelve inches deep. Once the door was closed, movement was almost impossible. While inside, the prisoner was denied food, water, and ventilation. In the last nine months, the Kid had seen more than one body carried straight from the box to the cemetery.

"Private Burke." Lewis' voice rose to summon the guard.

A bruising grip circled the Kid's thin arm. Fighting to retain his dignity and courage, he endured the pain without complaint.

"By the way," the captain's call stopped the two men at the door. "What was your friend's name, Lieutenant?"

"Miller, Corporal Miller."

"I'll send someone to tell him where you are," offered Lewis.

"Don't bother," the Kid dully revealed. "He died while your guards were tying my hands to bring me here."

"Then your assault was made in vain."

"No," the Kid thoughtfully denied. "I couldn't hold my head up if I hadn't at least tried to save him."

Lewis stared at the papers scattered across the scarred surface of his desk. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. You assaulted the Chief Surgeon. My hands are tied."

His own eyes resting on thin, dirty wrists bound together by a rough hemp, the Kid nodded. "Not all restrictions are physical in nature. At least I'll be able to sleep at night."

The Kid was led from the office. This war had left them all with demons to fight. The enemy couldn't be classified as Northern or Southern anymore. The horror of what they had seen on the battlefield and in the prison would forever prey on their minds. For the Kid, it was Teaspoon's sacrifice that would haunt him to his grave.

 

Sweetwater Station  
April 17, 1865

Buck lay low in the saddle, spurring his horse to new speeds. The smell of animal sweat and fresh, spring air alternated in their assault on his nostrils. Hoofs pounding into the ground threw mud on his clothing. As he finally entered the Sweetwater Station, he reined in hard, calling for Lou.

The door to the old bunkhouse opened, revealing the tiny woman. "In here, Buck."

"The war's over," Buck shouted, dismounting and hugging his friend to his chest.

"I know." Tears glistened on long brown eyelashes. Gesturing inside, Lou suggested, "Come on in."

Though the curtains had been drawn, shadows clung to the areas not directly in line with the windows. An indistinct figure sat at the table. At first, Buck thought it was Jeremiah, until the young boy pushed past him to take care of the exhausted horse.

As the figure rose to his feet, Buck's other senses told him what his eyes couldn't. Pistols shifted in a well-oiled holster. The scent of sweet-smelling cologne mingled with the odor of baking bread. "Jimmy?"

"How ya doin', Buck?" A catch in the deep voice conveyed a feeling the speaker couldn't express in words.

The long, heartbreaking years since the demise of the Pony Express had given Buck a freedom he hadn't felt when he was younger. Rounding the table, he pulled Jimmy to his chest. After a slight hesitation, arms circled the Indian's shoulders with a strength Buck wouldn't have attributed to his old friend. "Welcome home, Jimmy."

His eyes blinking rapidly to contain the tears threatening to spill over, Jimmy pushed away. "It's good to be home."

"Everybody sit down," Lou ordered, brushing the moisture from her own cheeks. "Teresa has dinner all ready."

Buck and Jimmy faced each other across the table, memories of happier days reflected on their faces: Jimmy scaring Cody by pretending to draw on him - and pulling a carrot; Emma, her eyes on Sam, almost overloading Cody's plate with beans. This table had seen laughter, tears - and the forging of enduring friendships.

"What've you heard from the Kid, Cody, and Teaspoon?" Jimmy asked, a mouthful of food making his words almost unintelligible.

Buck exchange a glance with Lou, before reluctantly replying, "Cody was fighting in the same area you were, western Missouri and Kansas. He hopes to visit soon. We haven't heard from the Kid in over two years. We don't know if he's alive or dead."

"I was captured as a spy in Vicksburg back in '63," Jimmy related. "The Kid helped me to escape, but he was wounded by a mortar attack. Teaspoon was there. Why don't you ask him about the Kid?"

"Did you see how bad the Kid was wounded?" Lou anxiously demanded, excitement and concern battling for dominance in a heart that ached for any word of her missing husband.

"Teaspoon didn't think it was too bad. He took a piece of shrapnel in the shoulder." Filling his mouth with another forkful of food, Jimmy mumbled, "What does Teaspoon have to say?"

The fresh, hot bread tasted like dust in Buck's mouth. He had never imagined that the spy Teaspoon had given up his life for was Jimmy Hickok. Buck knew how hard his friend would take the news, no matter how gently it was disclosed. "Teaspoon's dead, Jimmy."

"We don't know that," Lou protested, as she had since they received Amanda's letter.

Buck took a drink from his glass of milk, forcing down the tasteless bread. "They say Teaspoon was shot for helping a spy escape. From what we were told, it happened in Vicksburg, just before it fell."

The fork hit the plate with a resounding clang. Tortured eyes rose to meet his friend's as Jimmy cried, "No!"

"A Corporal Miller wrote Amanda O'Connell giving her the details of what happened," Buck explained, feeling the pain of his mentor's death anew. "Now that I know you were the spy, I understand why he did it."

"Well I don't," Jimmy groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Sitting next to her friend, Lou put a hand on a shaking arm. "Do you remember Adrian Dawkins, Jimmy?"

"He was that boy you and the Kid tried to save from an outlaw gang," came the muffled reply.

"That's right," Lou acknowledged, her hand tightening with remembered pain. "When he was dying, he threw a question back at me that I had asked him earlier… 'Ain't you ever done somethin' cause you love someone?' It's why he took a bullet that was meant for me and why Teaspoon gave his life for you."

Keeping his face hidden, Jimmy shook his head. "I didn't want him to die in my place."

"It wasn't your choice to make."

"I could've stayed in the shack."

"You know Teaspoon as well as I do." Lou smiled through her tears. "He wouldn't have given up. All that would've happened is you both would've endin' up in front of that firing squad."

Jimmy raised his head, revealing cheeks wet with tears and eyes red from crying. "I thought you didn't believe Teaspoon was dead."

Dark eyes resting on the tousled blond head of her small son, Lou shook her head. "I thought if I denied the truth, it would keep the Kid alive." Her gaze shifting to meet Hickok's, she pointed out, "But that path only leads to insanity."

"The Kid might still be alive," encouraged Jimmy, covering the callused hand resting on his arm.

Taking a deep breath, Lou let her gaze wander out the window. "I'll never give up hope."

* *

The sound of horses whinnying their delight in the dawning of a new day filled the air with a familiar sound. Beneath his bare feet, the ground trembled slightly as a small herd of the beautiful animals raced across the pasture. The Kid stopped walking for a moment, almost overwhelmed by the sights and sounds that greeted him as he crested a hill overlooking the Sweetwater Station. The slam of a door drew his attention to the house. It'd been over three years since he had seen her. Years that had wrought a great change in him, but apparently hadn't effected her sweet face or slender figure.

Feasting his eyes on his beautiful wife, the Kid let the tears he had been suppressing for so long fall. Raising a hand, he smeared the dust that had turned to mud on his face. The movement caught the young woman's attention. Shading her eyes against the new sun, she stared up at the ragged figure. His heart beating so fast it threatened to burst through his chest, the Kid walked slowly down the hill, unmindful of the stones and burrs that cut and bruised his bare feet.

"Kid?" The cry rose softly above the sounds of the farm. A hesitant step was followed by another, then another, until she was running up the low hill. "Kid!" 

Obviously attracted by Lou's cries, Buck strode from the barn. At almost the same time, Jimmy and Jeremiah stepped from the bunkhouse.

The young couple met in an embrace that threatened to crack the Kid's brittle bones. By the time they surfaced for air, Lou's face and clothes were liberally covered by the dust and mud that coated her husband.

As she pulled away to gaze lovingly upon the man she had married, Lou's happiness turned to fear. Before her stood a skeleton dressed only in rags. Holding him by the hand as though afraid to let him go, she said, "Breakfast is almost ready. You sure look like you could use some."

Though his strength couldn't match his wife's, the Kid pulled back. "Ike?"

"He's on the porch," Lou directed, pointing to the small figure holding tight to Teresa's hand.

The Kid absently greeted Buck and Jimmy as he dazedly made his way toward the house. As he drew nearer, the child shyly hid behind his aunt's skirt.

"Come out and meet your Papa, Ike," Lou gently instructed.

Awkwardly, the Kid dropped to his knees. "Hello, Ike."

The child's only response was to bury himself deeper in the folds of Teresa's skirt.

An arm circling the thin shoulders of her husband, Lou encouraged, "Once we get you cleaned up, you won't be able to keep him off your lap."

* *

Buck gazed sadly out into the night. It had been almost a month since the Kid's return. Though still thin, the bones were not quite so prominent on the lean figure. Each day, his friend gained back a little of the strength he had lost. The soft squeak of the rocking chair whispered through the night. Though Ike had already fallen asleep, the Kid continued the soothing motions that had become a nightly ritual - fulfilling Lou's prediction.

"There's a dance in town Saturday night," Lou announced, her eyes resting on her husband's face. "I thought we could all go."

"I won't be here," revealed Jimmy, turning his face into the shadows.

"This is your home, Jimmy." Lou's voice cracked as she pressed, "Where else can you go?"

"The war gave me a taste of what's out there," Jimmy admitted. "I miss the excitement."

"I don't think I'd classify killin' as excitin'," Lou bitterly denounced.

The Kid's hand gently caressed the soft brown locks of the head that rested against his knee. As only another veteran could, he understood his friend's feelings. "It's Jimmy's decision to make, Lou. Don't drive him away or he'll never come back."

Rising to her feet, Lou crossed to Hickok's side. Putting a hand on the stiff arm, she apologized, "I'm sorry, Jimmy, the Kid's right."

"I'll be leavin' in the mornin'," Jimmy said, as he pulled the young woman into a soft embrace."

"So will I," disclosed Buck, his eyes focusing on each of his friends. He wanted their images burned into his soul. They were the only family he had - the only ones who had accepted him without asking for something in return.

Lou's initial protest died in her throat as her eyes caught her husband's. Shifting her gaze to where Buck sat on a step leaning against a support pole, she implored, "Why, Buck? You're the one who made this place work."

"I made a promise. It's time I kept it."

His face pale in the moonlight, the Kid asked, "Where will you go?"

"To help my mother's people fight for their land," revealed Buck. He held his breath as he waited for the anger and revulsion he knew his words would produce.

"You know Cody has decided to continue scouting for the Army," the Kid gently reminded as he shifted the heavy burden that was his son. "What if you find yourselves in the same battle?"

"I pray it won't come to that," Buck admitted, closing his eyes to hide his despair.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping child in his arms, the Kid leaned forward and put a hand on the Indian's shoulder. "Once you feel you've fulfilled your obligation, you're welcome to come back to your home."

Surprised that there was no condemnation on the faces that surrounded him, Buck fought to contain his emotions. Revealing his feelings would only cause a deeper pain that none of them could endure.

Hickok's arm still gently encircling her shoulders, Lou sighed. "It's over, isn't it?"

"What's over?" Jimmy probed, pulling back slightly so he could look at his friend's face.

"This family, our family," Lou observed, covering her quivering lips with one hand. "War couldn't tear it apart, but peace has."

The Kid nodded. "We're like a wheel. Teaspoon was the axle the spokes revolved around. Without the axle, the spokes have nothing to hold them together."

Burying his fingers in Ike's curls, Buck implored, "You'll tell him about his namesake?"

"We'll tell him about all of his uncles." The Kid mischievously smiled.

"You don't have to tell him everything," protested Jimmy.

The Kid's body shook slightly with concealed laughter. "Then you'll have to visit once in a while just to make sure I get the stories right."

"Or to tell him a few of my own," Jimmy smugly warned.

The mild bickering continued around him as Buck leaned close to Ike's tiny ear. Somehow, he knew he would never again caress the soft cheek or ruffle the unruly curls. "Ride safe, little one, ride safe."


End file.
